


You think a Mandalorian and a guy like me…?

by Tathrin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Canderous-centric, M/M, Mando'a, Revan doesn't need your stinking pronouns, all the possible companions, although most of them won't play big roles, just a little bit though, pronouns what pronouns, well at least eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathrin/pseuds/Tathrin
Summary: It’s not a question Carth Onasi would ever have asked, not unless he was discussing the odds of he and Canderous Ordo surviving a mission without killing each other. But Canderous has never been one to hold a grudge against someone just because they fought on opposite sides of a war. Of course, Carth might have picked up on his interest sooner if he hadn’t spent all his time mooning after Revan—and if Canderous’s flirting style was a little more, well, flirtatious. But Mando’a doesn’t have a word for “coy” so he settled for taking potshots at Carth’s battle philosophy and making sure anybody trying to shoot him died fast. But isn’t that how everybody says, “I love you”?Just a little character/relationship study on one of my favorite absolutely-no-basis-in-canon-but-wouldn’t-it-be-fun-if-there-werepossible ships from the first KOTOR game.





	1. Fields and Forests

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep the main plot as open-ended and ambiguous as possible so that the story would work with whatever kind of Revan you prefer to play and with as wide a range of gameplay-choices as possible. Obviously eventually things will have to get a little more narrowed-down as the story progresses but I aim to keep the background as vague as possible unless it’s truly relevant to the actions and development of the characters in question. (But eventually we’ll have to deviate from middle-of-the-road to choose the Light Side or Dark Side ending sorry about that!)

It started on Dantooine, although Canderous didn’t realize it at the time. Then he had just been baiting the tightly-wound Republic soldier for the sake of his own amusement; he needed something to do on that dull, grassy world after all, and smirking at skittish Jedi couldn’t fulfill _all_ of a person’s entertainment needs. Neither could kath hounds; the beasts were endless, but killing them didn’t require a great deal of skill. Just dedication, and enough situational awareness to not let oneself get swarmed by more than five or six at a time.

He understood the importance of training, of course; no Mando’ade did not, at least none who had survived past their thirteenth year. But training was tedious for the people whose only involvement in the process was to stand around and wait until their erstwhile leader was done with the latest lesson. Not that Canderous had exactly vowed fealty yet—but what else did he have to do? There wasn’t a lot of traffic on and off Dantooine so he couldn’t just book passage on some other ship and besides, he didn’t have to be able to touch the Force to know how to trust his gut. He’d never met anyone quite so interesting before. He wanted to be there to see what happened next.

Besides, somebody had to stick around to keep an eye on the kid. She wasn’t a bad sort, and neither was the Wookiee, for all that he was stand-offish. That was all right; Canderous could respect a stand-offish warrior. And the kid was annoying sometimes, but she wasn’t a wimp. He could respect that, too.

What he _couldn’t_ respect was a man who lied to himself, and Carth Onasi was a man full of self-deception. He was at war with himself and on one hand, that kind of inner-conflict was dangerous because it left a warrior open to too many distractions and uncertainties—but on the other, as long as they weren’t facing any threats more dangerous than some dumb beasts and a few dumber thugs, it was _funny_.

Canderous had always enjoyed baiting rancors—in a metaphorical sense; he didn’t approve of pointless cruelty to non-sentient animals. That kind of thing was beneath a true warrior. Baiting a soldier who was too full of himself to see his own flaws, though—that was fair game. Especially when that soldier had fought on the opposite side of the last war you had been in, and never shut-up about his precious Republic.

It hadn’t started out as deliberate goading. Initially Canderous had thought he had found a fellow spirit in the art of combat, albeit one who had once been an enemy. That wouldn’t have made a difference in how he thought about Carth, though; Mandalorians didn’t hold grudges over a fair defeat. He still considered his fight against the Republic to be the crowning element of his life, and he had hoped to share some stories about those great deeds with Carth.

“You fought in the Mandalorian Wars, didn’t you?” he asked, in between drilling bolts of red hot lasers through kath hound skulls. “We may have faced each other in combat. What battles were you in?”

Carth looked up, incredulous, then narrowed his eyes in a glare. “I try not to think about my past battles too much,” he said in a terse voice, glancing away from Canderous to shoot down another hound. “The horrors of war are something I’d rather not relieve,” he finished grimly.

“The horrors of war?” Canderous couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “My people know only the glory of battle,” he retorted harshly, shouldering his heavy blaster and walking forward to give the last kath hound he had shot a kick, just to make sure it was really dead. “I’m disappointed in you, Carth,” he spat. “I thought a warrior like you would understand.”

A light voice interrupted before the Republic officer could answer: “Carth isn’t like you, Canderous.” The reluctant Jedi-in-training was leading their kath hound hunt today; Canderous wasn’t sure if it was an officially-sanctioned task, or just a much-needed break from the Jedi Council’s prodding. Regardless, their erstwhile leader was here, and was clearly trying to stop a fight from breaking out between the tenuous allies.

Carth was having none of it. Now he had the bit between his teeth and he intended to say his piece. “I’m not a warrior,” he explained sharply, glowering at Canderous and ignoring the attempted peace-making. “I’m a soldier. There’s a difference. Warriors attack and conquer, they prey on the weak. Soldiers defend and protect the innocent…mostly from warriors,” he added accusingly.

Canderous smirked. “Nice speech,” he sneered. “I bet you tell yourself that every night so you can sleep.” He was disappointed in Onasi, and annoyed with himself for being disappointed. He should have expected no more from someone who was so loyal to the weak and doddering Republic. This wasn’t Revan he was talking to, after all—just one of the men who had had the good fortune to follow that great commander. But he had let himself be lulled into a false sense of comradeship by Carth’s quick hand on his blasters and the man’s sharp, ruthless aim. It took more than being a good shot to make someone a good warrior, though; it took integrity. “But I accept who and what I am,” he continued in a growl, returning Carth’s glare with a blazing look of his own. “I don’t have to justify it with words. Victory in battle is my justification.”

“Justification through victory?” Carth said, his eyebrows raising. “So what happens when you lose?” he asked after a pointed pause. “You know, like you did against us?”

Canderous was taken aback and found himself, much to his surprise, on the defensive. “You had us outnumbered five to one. You had more ships, more troops, more supplies— _and_ the Jedi on your side. And we still made the Republic tremble before we fell.” He could hear his pride and pleasure in those memories leaking into his voice and did nothing to stop it. His people had nothing to be ashamed of in their defeat at Revan’s hand; that sort of glory was what a Mandalorian lived for, win _or_ lose.

“Nice speech,” Carth said sourly, “I bet you tell yourself that every night so you can sleep.” His sullen, petty response was childish, and he apparently knew it, because he quickly went on to say, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Canderous. The war is over. You lost.”

“Hmm,” was all Canderous said, making no move to stop Carth or continue the conversation as he angrily stalked away across the grass. Canderous shouldered his heavy blaster and followed, sparing their leader a glance before he did. Was it the Jedi training that had kept the third member of their little group out of the conversation, save for that one half-hearted attempt at reconciliation? Or was it just more amusing to watch the two of them butt heads without interference?

Canderous couldn’t find fault with the latter supposition; his amusement at watching Carth squirm was why he returned to the subject again and again over the course of the days and then weeks that they traveled together.

“How about it, Onasi?” he asked, as they sat uselessly cleaning their weapons in the main hold of the _Eben Hawk_. “Do you have any stories about fighting Mandalorians face-to-face or not?”

The others were off negotiating for information with the tedious Czerka officers. It had been decided that Zaalbar, being a native of this planet, was crucial to their success—although the Wookiee hadn’t been enthusiastic about the idea of returning home, Canderous thought. He hadn’t pried; not only would that have been rude, but he knew better than to needle an already-grumpy Wookiee. (A lesson their erstwhile leader might do well to learn, but who was he to tell a Jedi prodigy how to talk to the rest of the crew?) Bastila had insisted on going along “to supervise your training in the field,” she’d said arrogantly, tilting her dainty little chin up as though daring the rest of them to argue. Mission had refused to let “Big Z” brave the perils of a homecoming alone, and while the Wookiee had protested that Kashyyk was too dangerous a jungle for the city-dwelling twi’lek child to brave, Mission hadn’t listened. (Canderous could have told Zaalbar that was going to happen, but he hadn’t bothered because he had a feeling the Wookiee had known it wouldn’t work all along.)

Since they were planning to start with the delicate scalpel of diplomacy, Canderous had offered to stay and watch the ship because someone had to, and that sounded _boring_. It wasn’t his strong-suit anyway. “Come get me when you need something done right,” he’d smirked. “Like roughing-up one of those bureaucrats so they’ll give you an honest answer, or shooting them in the kneecap when they lie.” Mission had laughed and Canderous was pretty sure he’d seen their not-so-Jedi-like-after-all leader crack a smile, but Carth and Bastila had just glared at him. “I’ll stay too,” Carth had said immediately, and while the reasoning he gave was, “I’m not going to be much help with sweet-talking Czerka after all, and the bigger your group is the more notice it will attract,” Canderous knew that what he really meant was, “because if the Mandalorian is going to watch the ship, someone else has to watch the Mandalorian.”

Canderous had just snorted and settled back in his chair. Carth walked the others to the hatchway, muttering in the ears of the two Jedi the whole way there, then stood in the opening for a long while watching them walk down the primitive-but-sturdy wooden pathway. Eventually he’d come back, paced the room a few times, and then slumped down in one of the chairs opposite Canderous, who had already started to disassemble his oversized repeating blaster.

“Does it count as guard duty if you’ve taken your weapon off line?” he asked peevishly.

In answer Canderous just reached into his vest and pulled out three vibroblades, which he stuck into the edge of the plasteel table. Then he leaned over and slipped a small hold-out blaster from his boot, followed by another, longer vibroblade, which also went _thunk_ into the table. When he reached into his vest again Carth held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right,” he grumbled, “I get it, you’re still plenty armed. Fine.”

He’d sat and sulked in silence for a while, although when Canderous pushed his tin of oil over to within easy reach, Carth had grudgingly pulled out one of his blasters and started the meticulous process of cleaning it, too.

Canderous viewed that as a large mark of trust on Carth’s part, under the circumstances: while he still had his other blaster holstered at his side and ready for a quick-draw, the fact that he had allowed himself to be vulnerable enough to clean one of his weapons in Canderous’s presence meant that he had come a long way since their meeting on Taris. In deference to that gesture, he had kept quiet for a while.

But eventually the opportunity to amuse himself was too good to pass-up, and he’d started by saying cheerfully, “How about it, Onasi? Do you have any stories about fighting Mandalorians face-to-face or not?”

Carth shot him a glare and then pointedly returned his attention to his blaster. “You were right there next to me on Dantooine a lot of the time,” he said, his voice sullen. “You saw it for yourself.”

“Bah,” spat Canderous, “Dantooine. Those _chakaare_ were nothing but the dregs, pitiful dogs chewing on scraps after they slunk away in their shame. Those were not _true_ Mandalorians. Fighting them was _nothing_ like fighting a _real_ Mando.” He growled quietly. He was too professional a warrior to take out his temper on his weapon, but the motion of his arm gliding back and forth as he polished the barrel had become jerky and sharp, like his temper.

“Mmm-hmm,” Carth said, eyeing him sideways. “And working for Davik, that was…?”

“Pathetic,” Canderous said, nodding ready agreement with Carth’s implication. “Why do you think I jumped at the chance to help a bunch of Republic outlaws? I saw a chance for something better and I took it.”

“So helping the Republic, that’s a better cause than being a petty crime lord’s enforcer?” Carth shrugged. He was trying to speak casually but Canderous could see the tension in his shoulders even through his heavy jacked. “I can’t disagree, but I’m a little surprised _you_ feel that way.”

“I’m not here for the _Republic_ , boy,” Canderous said.

Carth couldn’t really say anything to that; he might claim that he was here solely out of loyalty to his precious government and their precious fleet, but both men knew that he could have returned to the military itself if he’d wanted to. Instead he had chosen to continue on as their pilot. He was following something all right—some _one_ —but it wasn’t the Republic. Not entirely.

Canderous meticulously scoured microscopic traces of burnt ozone from the barrel of his weapon for a while, letting Carth simmer…and releasing the last of his own temper. It wasn’t Carth he was angry at, anyway; it was his people. How they could let themselves fall so far—how _he_ could have let himself fall so far, too, but so many of them had fallen even further. Reduced to pushing-around a bunch of hapless farmers…it disgusted him. It made him feel disgusted with _himself_.

Fortunately, he had a ready distraction close at hand. “So,” he asked cheerfully, “ _did_ you ever face us on the ground during the war, or were you always up in space hiding in your ships when we fought your Republic?”

Carth bristled, as Canderous had intended. “I was not _hiding_ ,” he snapped. “There was just as much fighting going on between the fleets as on the ground. More, in many ways; if the war had been a solely planetary-based conflict, it wouldn’t have engulfed half the Republic, would it? If you’d kept yourselves on your little moons—”

“Fighting over scraps?” Canderous interrupted mildly. “Yes, I know the Republic preferred us that way. Most ‘civilized’ people did. But eventually one tires of the same horizon. Real challenges can only be found when you step outside and look up, move beyond the little walls of what you think is the whole world. Surely you figured that much out, during the war? Isn’t that why you reenlisted?”

“That’s not—” Carth’s heated retort died on his tongue, diverted by Canderous’s question. “Who told you I reenlisted?” he asked. He was frowning, confusion and hurt writhing in his hooded brown eyes; certain he’d been betrayed and ready to lash-out at whoever had done it. He was so _predictable_. But then, most wounded animals were.

“Your service records,” Canderous told him and grinned.

“How did you get access to my service records?” Carth’s outrage had not diminished.

“I looked them up. I may not have the kid’s skills but I do know the rudiments of using a computer terminal.”

“How did you get access to _Republic files?_ ” Carth asked. His cheeks were starting to turn red now and his words were grinding out of his mouth like a durasteel-processing conveyer belt.

“We were at a Jedi facility,” Canderous explained mildly. “They’re still patched-in from the war. Or at least, they are if you know how to look for the right access paths.”

“And you knew how to look for those paths?” Carth didn’t sound convinced. “For that matter, how did you get access to the Jedi’s terminals?”

“They don’t exactly have security patrols trooping through their halls,” Canderous said dryly. When Carth continued to glare at him suspiciously he added, “And it’s amazing what you can talk a talented slicer into doing when she’s a fourteen-year-old who wants to prove her value to a bunch of stodgy adults.” Canderous’s smile showed all his teeth.

Carth reared back in his chair like an affronted ronto. “I can’t believe you took advantage of Mission for—”

“Oh, save it,” Canderous flapped his hand dismissively. “The kid didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do already. She was bored out of her mind, cooped-up on that dead-end grass-ball world. She’s a city kid, Carth. She doesn’t care from farms and kath hunting. Once the allure of fresh air and a horizon that doesn’t end wore off, she was restless. None of her old hobbies worked there. All I did was suggest that she could find some constructive ways to fill her time while the rest of you were busy panting after the Jedi, and she was more than happy to join me on a bit of harmless skullduggery.”

“Harmless?” Carth was going to give himself a stroke if he didn’t learn how to relax.

Canderous smiled sweetly. “Sure,” he said, “harmless. It’s not like we left any nasty surprises behind or sliced into classified state secrets. We just looked up some details on our new companions. Nothing wrong with getting to know the people who are going to be watching your backs out there in the cold, hard galaxy, is there?”

“That is not the way to do that,” Carth growled.

“Well you weren’t exactly forthcoming, were you?” Canderous shot back.

That shut Carth up for a moment. After a while he asked, in a disgruntled but calmer tone of voice, “So how much did you learn, then?”

“About you?” Canderous asked mildly. “Or about our…other comrades?”

“…About any of us,” Carth said, but he wouldn’t meet Canderous’s eyes anymore. Carth’s attempt to hide his interest in the secrets he was so morally outraged that he and the kid had sliced was pathetic, but maybe Carth realized that he wasn’t going to fool Canderous no matter how sincere he played it and had chosen surrender as the less embarrassing option. Or maybe he just wanted to know badly enough to be willing to swallow his moral outrage and listen.

The Mandalorian just chuckled. “So the kid and I aren’t the only one who are curious, huh?” Carth started to voice a protest or an excuse, but Canderous decided to take pity. “No, don’t get your skivvies in a twist, of course we looked for information—on Bastila too, for that matter. There isn’t much, though. Well, there’s plenty on Bastila…but she’s not who you’re curious about, eh?” Canderous grinned. Carth shifted uncomfortable in his seat but he didn’t deny it. “Well, there wasn’t much. Not that we could find on the surface, anyway. I don’t know if it’s because our mysterious friend wasn’t involved in much of the war, or just spent it in clandestine efforts that nobody wants to talk about publicly, but the last time I saw a profile that bare-bones it was a false persona a mark had put together to avoid paying their debts. Didn’t work, by the way,” he added as an aside, although Carth hadn’t inquired. “I found the slimy little dung-beetle in three days and put a laserbolt through his skull. Anyway, there was a lot more data on you and Bastila, although neither of your profiles were what I would call detailed reading either. Just the basic facts, rank and homeworld and some family stats. That sort of thing.”

He didn’t say anything else for a while, giving Carth a chance to speak—or not.

Eventually he said, quite slowly, “Well then you should know what battles I was involved in, from my records. You should already know…pretty much anything you might want to ask.”

“Didn’t look that close,” Canderous said easily, as if he hadn’t just spent several minutes baiting Carth over the idea that his records had been sliced and all his secrets exposed. “Really I just wanted confirmation that you were all who—and what—you said you were; I prefer hearing about someone’s exploits from their own lips to reading about them on a datapad. You get a more…personal account that way. Facts can be misleading when they’re stripped of all context. It’s the way the story’s told that really matters.”

Carth raised an eyebrow, clearly neither convinced nor mollified.

“Well all right,” Canderous admitted, “that, and the kid got distracted looking-up news about Taris. Wanted to see if there was any word of anybody else she knew making it off.”

“…And?” Carth asked, when Canderous did not continue.

The Mandalorian shook his head.

After a while, once he felt the silence had dragged on long enough for Carth to start brooding, he asked again: “So did you?”

Carth looked up, startled out of his bleak memories. “Did I what?”

“Ever face any Mandalorians on the ground, of course,” said Canderous. “What do you think we’ve been talking about all this time?”

“I thought we were talking about your delight in invading other people’s privacy,” Carth said sulkily.

Canderous slapped a hand to his chest as though he was wounded, although he was smirking. “So you really weren’t listening at all, then,” he said, voice sad. “Otherwise you would know that I take much less pleasure in invading someone’s privacy than I do in hearing them tell their own stories. So come on, soldier, regal me with some thrilling heroics. Or failing that, if you haven’t actually got any to tell, you could at least annoy me with another lecture about your moral superiority. Nothing makes the time fly like listening to a bitter hypocrite wax philosophical.”

“I am not a hypocrite,” Carth growled.

“No?” Canderous shrugged. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll take your word for that, if it means all that much to you. But if you have any anecdotal evidence to back the claim, now would be a good time to share. Or let me guess—you ‘don’t want to talk about it,’ right? Just like everything else anyone tries to talk to you about.”

Carth glowered. “You have got to be the most frustrating, insensitive, bloodthirsty, uncivilized sav—”

“Hold that thought,” Canderous interrupted, and rocked to his feet. He clicked a new powerpack into his freshly-oiled weapon and walked toward the hatchway.

“Hey,” Carth called after him, “don’t you walk away when I’m telling you what I think about you!”

“Tell me later,” Canderous shot back over his shoulder. “There’s trouble outside.”

“What kind of trouble?” Carth was already reassembling his blaster as he moved to join the Mandalorian and Canderous noted with approval that the man’s hands were sure and swift; here was someone who didn’t rely on droid maintenance or Republic armories to look after his weapons for him.

“The kind that carries blasters,” Canderous said. “What more do you need to know?”

“Well, whether our friends are mixed-up in it, of course!”

“Oh come on.” Canderous shook his head mournfully, but his smile was wide. “Do you really think there’s any question about that?”


	2. Suns and Sands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've played with some logistical details here for the same of practicality and realism (because some things that don't merit a side-eye in a video game, like folks having private conversations while standing right next to other people who never overhear what they're saying for example, don't quite work in a prose format). Hopefully those little logistical deviations from the exact details of the gameplay won't throw anyone off too badly because it's likely to happen again! Expect the occasional odd dialogue tweak as well for the sake of things like not-sounding-like-a-canned-npc-response or fitting-the-situation-we're-in-at-the-moment-a-little-better, etc. If a bit of fast-and-loose-with-the-facts throws you off, I apologize...and you may want to back out of the story now because it's unlikely to stop here (although it will not, hopefully, become much worse than what it is here for whatever that's worth).

By the time they got to Tatooine, Canderous had realized that he was no longer just baiting the Republic soldier to watch him squirm. Or more accurately, he _was_ interested in watching him squirm, but not just because he was a straight-laced member of the Republic military who deserved to be thrown off-balance once in a while. He was also enjoying it because the sight of Carth Onasi getting flustered and ruffled was an attractive one. The way his shoulders slid back to parade-ground stiffness, the way the skin around his pretty brown eyes tightened like he was checking the aim on his blasters, the way that little muscle on the side of his jaw started to twitch, and his chin jerked up making that ever-disobedient lock of his slightly-longer-than-regulation hair flop forward...

Oh yes, Canderous was getting all sorts of enjoyment out of baiting Carth these days.

Carth only had eyes for their tempetuous leader though, and Canderous couldn’t blame him; he was growing to like this not-quite-a-Jedi more and more with every fight. He’d also made it clear that his bunk was open for a tumble at any time…but he didn’t expect to be taken up on the offer, and wasn’t put-out by the evident lack of reciprocal interest. He was sure they’d have almost as much fun in bed together as they did in the firefights and fisticuffs that accompanied their little group’s dealings wherever they want, but he was also perfectly content with the fun he was already getting from those firefights. Sex could be a fun sideline to the comradeship between warriors, true, but it was just another way to pass the time until the next battle and as far as Canderous was concerned, he was just happy to be led into battles he could take some real pleasure in again. Anything else between the two of them would just be a distraction.

And Carth filled that role just fine, even if he didn’t seem to have realized it yet. No wonder, given how deeply infatuated he was with someone else; he’d have to pull his eyes away from their illustrious leader’s finely-toned assets long enough to look at someone else before he could have noticed anyone ogling his own. Canderous would say that much for the stiff-necked pilot: Carth had some well-toned assets. His build was slimmer than Canderous’s solid muscles and both bulkier and softer than the taut durasteel-cable musculature of the three lithe Jedi, but he was no flabby desk-jockey. Plenty of hotshot pilots and crack-shots were lazy, letting their ships and their blasters do the work for them (and plenty of them had paid for that laziness in bloody and painful ways when they met people like Canderous), but not Carth. He kept himself in shape. Canderous appreciated that as both a fellow fighter and as someone who enjoyed the sight of some well-toned muscles on another man—or for that matter on a woman, or anybody else.

(Mandalorians tended not to get caught-up in issues of gender; their own language barely differentiated among the various options and when their armor was on it could be hard to tell even what species you were looking at, let alone any other details. Canderous had fought alongside plenty of people whom he considered close comrades whose genders he wouldn’t have been able to guess at if he’d tried—and whose faces he had hardly ever seen. It was all the same to him, anyway—at least among Mandalorians. _Aruetiise_ were something else. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that among the majority of human cultures that dominated the nearby sectors of space, females tended to fall into weaker, more peaceful roles. He wasn’t sure why and didn’t really care. He was just glad that none of the women traveling with them were like that. Even Mission, for all that she was a scrawny underfed kid, knew seventeen different ways to gut a barve with a vibroblade and was even more dangerous with a blaster in her hand. Canderous had started to show her a few tricks she could use when she didn’t have a weapon around— _bajur_ of the young was a duty of all warriors—and she was proving to be a quick study. He was proud. It had been a long time since he’d last trained a kid. He hadn’t realized he’d missed it.)

Of course, while Tatooine was not a pleasant world to spend time on, it had some fringe benefits: given the heat, everyone was quick to strip their extra layers whenever possible. Out under the harsh double-suns it wasn’t a good idea to go uncovered, but inside the ship was another matter. While they ran some of the climate control from the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s life support in order to keep from actually baking or suffocating inside the airless metal box of their ship, they kept it dialed low to keep from draining too much power or fuel just for the sake of comfort. That meant that the interior of the ship was only slightly cooler than the baking sands outside, although at least the air inside had a little more moisture.

Mission did better than any of the others—except for the droids—being that twi’leks were adapted to the extreme temperatures of Ryloth. She was thus not bothered by the heat as much as the rest of the organics, but Canderous had a feeling that even if she had been a human she wouldn’t have minded much. The girl was too optimistic and bouncy to let a little thing like blistering heat oppress her spirits. If he’d been the kind of person who smacked around kids, he might have been tempted to slug her one just for the sake of party unity: If everybody else was suffering, she might as well join-in…but even when she got on his nerves, Canderous had to admit that the sight of Mission’s bright grin cheered him up almost as much as it pissed him off. Not that he would tell and of the others that, of course.

Zaalbar, on the other hand, was truly miserable. Wookiees came from a lush, wet jungle world—as they all now knew intimately; Canderous had thought some of his clothes would be damp for weeks after their time on Kashyyk but the climate of Tatooine had alleviated that concern with great speed—and he was not a happy walking carpet in all this dry heat. The sight of his static-plagued fur floating around in wisps was entertaining, but his rumbling sighs of discomfort were less so, particularly when Canderous was trying to sleep. After they left Dantooine with their new recruit, the Cathar Jedi, they had decided to rearrange the sleeping quarters according to rough gender lines (silly, primitive notions to Canderous’s mind, but he had had a feeling that it had just been the first excuse Bastila had thought of to get what she wanted; Carth had been quick to go along with it because he still didn’t trust Canderous and wanted to keep an eye on him—and maybe on their new old Jedi, too). That meant that Canderous now shared close quarters with the Wookiee, and while he had no problem sleeping through either his snores or the old man’s, he understood just enough _Shyriiwook_ that Zaalbar’s muttered comments kept waking him up because he thought someone was talking to him.

The fact that Juhani—who radiated such palpable dislike whenever Canderous was near that even the non-Jedi could feel it—wasn’t doing much better did cheer him up, a little. Her homeworld was not as humid or densely-forested as Kashyyk, but it was still arboreal which meant that Cathar had not evolved to thrive in dry deserts; worse for Juhani, she had grown-up on Taris, which involved climate-controlled interiors and, for a non-human like her, the dim and dank underlevels. She prowled around the ship in a sharp temper…although Canderous hadn’t seen evidence that she had any other moods, yet, except for worshipful—and that side of her personality was reserved for just one person, and it definitely wasn’t him.

Much more amusing than the grumpy Cathar was their other Jedi, snooty Bastila. Watching her deny that she felt any discomfort while sweat poured down her pale little face like a waterfall was quickly becoming one of Canderous’s favorite hobbies. “You sure you’re doing all right, princess?” he would ask, just to hear her snap back that, “Of course I am! A Jedi is one with their environment, no matter the type or the location. Besides, momentary physical discomfort is—well, momentary. Not worth thinking about. We have much more important things to worry about than a little sun. Suns. Would you stop complaining?” Then she would stalk away in high dudgeon, leaving Canderous to chuckle heartily to himself behind her. The effort Bastila put into maintaining her meticulous hairstyle—and the pointlessness of the attempt—was pretty funny as well. Watching the spoiled Jedi prodigy insist that she was “perfectly comfortable, thank you,” while she was trying to tie her sopping-wet pigtails back into place was guaranteed to lift Canderous’s spirits, no matter how sweaty or sunburned he felt at the time.

It was the sunburn that got to him more than the heat. Canderous was only human, which meant that he was no more well-adapted to the desert than any of the others, but he was used to harsh environmental conditions and could largely shrug-off the temperature as long as he kept his fluids and electrolytes properly replenished to compensate for the physical drain. The big problem for him was that he was also used to wearing armor—more armor than he had on now, anyway. Full, all-encompassing armor with a helmet that sealed tightly enough to be able to withstand brief exposure to the vacuum of space. That had been taken from him by the Jedi (and did they know how deep that loss had cut the defeated Mandalorians? Had they done it simply because it was impractical to leave their beaten foes so well armed and armored, or had they known how demoralizing it would be to a mando to lose their beskar? Did they know what that _meant_ to a mando?) but he had spent most of the last four years on Taris, working largely in places where there was little to no solar light. His skin wasn’t used to so much sun— _really_ wasn’t used to so much sun.

“Ouch,” he grumbled, turning to glare over his shoulder at the child perched behind him. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

Mission giggled, then tried to look serious. “Of course not,” she said. “And it isn’t funny, either.”

Canderous growled but said nothing more. He did appreciate her helping him get the stupid skin-healing cream spread across all the spots on his shoulders that were hard for him to reach—especially given the way it stung lately whenever he stretched his arms too far. And he _was_ glad that she was no longer even a little bit scared of him, the way she had been when they had first met on Taris—but she was _definitely_ laughing at his pain. He’d like to see how funny _she_ thought it was if she had stupid pale pink human skin like his, now burned a bright and crispy Bonadan red.

“Maybe you should start wearing long sleeves,” Mission suggested. “Or a nice thick jacket.”

“I _was_ wearing long sleeves,” Canderous retorted. “I didn’t realize the sun would burn right through the fabric to scorch me underneath it.”

Mission glanced at the light tunic that Canderous had grudgingly added to his ensemble out of deference to the double-suns above them, now lying on the floor in a pile with the rest of the clothes he had discarded so she could do her work. “You didn’t think sunlight would go through _that?_ ” she asked, even more amused at him now.

“I usually wear a dura-weave armor-mesh when I wear anything,” Canderous explained, his voice cross. “No light shy of a nuclear detonation goes through that stuff. It didn’t occur to me that of all the many things that plain cloth doesn’t protect from the way armor-mesh does, sunlight is also one.”

He thought he heard another muffled giggle but resisted the urge to turn around and check. The back of his neck _hurt_. Who would have thought that something as plain and paltry as a sunburn could have so much kick? It hurt worse than catching a full-powered blaster bolt across your skin. At least that kind of pain was concentrated, and the places that were hit the worst were usually blasted so bad that the nerves were burned-away along with the flesh and tissue beneath. Blaster wounds left a dull, deep ache surrounded by a ring of fiery pain. Sunburns on the other hand were nothing _but_ fire. It felt like he was still burning even though there were several feet of solid durasteel between him and those thrice-damned double suns.

He didn’t look up when the hatch _whoosed_ open, content to stew in his misery while Mission giggled her way through her ministrations. Belatedly he recognized the footsteps of the newcomer; there was only one member of their little ragtag crew whose stride clicked with military precision.

Canderous’s spirits sank even lower. Here he sat, burnt arms folded gingerly across the table, his _shebs_ only half on the chair on which he was sitting in order to leave room for Mission’s feet—her rump was perched on the back of the chair, letting her lean over the taller human—while the kid spread healing cream across his neck and shoulders for him. It was a more vulnerable position than he liked to be caught in, and the thought of having the prickly Republic soldier see him like that was demoralizing. It was one thing to need a kolto patch or a stim after a battle; one thing to be helped limping back to your ship because you had just taken a blaster bolt to the calf; one thing to be wounded in a fight. It was something else entirely to admit that something as insignificant as a _sunburn_ had caused you so much pain that you needed help taking care of the burn.

“What’s this?” Carth asked. The tone of his voice was strange but Canderous didn’t look up to gauge the expression on his scruffy face. Instead he stared stoically down at the table, refusing to make any excuses. He would own his weaknesses just as he owned his strengths—he just wouldn’t be happy about it. Mission started to explain, but before she could Carth’s bootheels clicked their way over to the table.

“Is that…is that kolto skin cream?” Carth breathed a heavy sigh. “Tell me there’s more of it,” he pleaded.

Now Canderous _did_ look up, and he couldn’t help grinning. Carth’s face normally sported a light tan—the color of a naturally pale man who spent _some_ time in the sun but _more_ time on spaceships—but that had been replaced by a virulent red color that matched the current shade of all of Canderous’s exposed skin. The pilot was trying to shrug out of his jacket without moving anything more than he had to; his neck was even redder than his face and he winced whenever the collar of his jacket brushed the sensitive scorched skin. Even his hands, Canderous saw as he glanced down to where Carth was gingerly trying to tug his sleeves over his fingers without actually touching anything, had burned.

Canderous laughed.

Carth jerked his head around to glare at the Mandalorian, but Canderous was already waving Mission away and climbing to his feet. “Yeah, there’s more,” he said, smiling. “Here kid, give me that. You’ve done your good deed for the day, go find something fun to do. Or some trouble to cause.”

“Or a little of both?” Mission chirped at him, smirking.

“Even better,” said Canderous. “And hey—thanks.”

“Oh no problem!” Mission said, her smile wide. “Really—I didn’t mind at all! Smearing it into your weird head-hair was the best part. Good luck with that, Carth!” She waved a goopy hand at them both and skipped off toward the ‘fresher to wash up. Canderous chuckled to himself as he watched her go.

Carth was scowling at both of them—mostly at Canderous—and seemed to have forgotten that he was still half-trapped in his stifling jacket. Canderous stuck the tube of kolto cream in a back pocket and stomped over to him. “Well come on then,” he said, as the pilot just stared at him balefully.

“Come on what?” Carth held out his hand. “What, do I have to pay you for it or something?”

“Nah,” said Canderous, “but if you don’t get out of that jacket it won’t do you much good.”

It was hard to say if Carth flushed with his face already so red, but he did glance down at what he was wearing with evident surprise. “Right,” he muttered, and visibly steeled himself for the agony of inching it off over his sunburned hands.

“Oh give me that,” Canderous said, shaking his head. “Honestly, you’re like a child trying to squirm out of his first set of beskar. Haven’t you ever had to pull clothes off over an injury before? Faster is better—trust me.”

“Oh, trust you?” Carth said, his eyebrows shooting up; the expression was funnier than usual because the pits of his eyes had not been scorched as badly as the rest of his face, and it looked like he was wearing a set of pale goggles over his eyes. “That’s rich, given the Mandalor—OUCH!”

Canderous had plucked the jacket off the back of Carth’s neck, one hand on each shoulder, and briskly spun the slimmer pilot in a half-circle so he could whisk the jacket down off his arms. “There you go,” he said cheerfully. “Much better.”

From the sound of it, Carth was swearing under his breath. Canderous let him, stepping back to the table to fold the sturdy jacket in two and hang it over the edge of a chair. When he turned back around Carth was glaring at him. “I can’t believe you—”

“Shirt next, soldier,” Canderous interrupted him. “Do you need help with that too?”

Glowering like a grenade on countdown, Carth silently yanked his shirt off over his head. He barely winced as it dragged across the skin of his neck, his annoyance with Canderous offering plenty of angry distraction from the pain. The undershirt went next, even more briskly; Carth tossed them both roughly in the direction of his jacket without looking to see if they landed.

(Canderous looked; they both hit the target.)

“There,” Carth snapped. “All right? Can I have the damn cream now?”

“And what are you going to do with it?” Canderous asked, grinning again. “Stand there and twist yourself up like a twi’lek dancing girl trying to see the back of your own head? Di’kut.”

Carth simmered for a moment, his brown eyes narrow slits in his red face, then he turned his back with a sharp, sullen twist. “Fine,” he said, speaking through gritted teeth. “Thank you.”

It didn’t sound sincere. Canderous didn’t mind. He was baiting the sunburnt soldier as much as he was helping him, after all. He squirted a generous coating of the kolto cream onto his fingers and smeared it across Carth’s skin. He flinched at the touch, all his muscles going taut as durasteel, but he didn’t jerk away. Canderous continued to spread the cream, amused at the stubborn sharpshooter’s refusal to let himself relax into the soothing coolness of the kolto. A close-up view of the back of Carth’s neck—so red it had started to blister—made Canderous whistle, impressed. “How did you let _that_ happen?” he asked, gently prodding the aggrieved flesh with a goopey finger.

“I didn’t ‘let’ anything happen,” Carth snapped, sullenly refusing to look over his shoulder—or maybe his neck was just too sore for him to want to turn it. “I was out in that damned double sunlight, and the next thing I knew— _this_.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice sooner, is all,” Canderous said. Certainly _he_ had noticed the burning in time to come back inside before his skin had started to bubble and flake. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of hotshot sharpshooter? One would think you’d have more acute senses. Or are you just too used to having a ship’s sensors around to tell you everything you need to know, so you’ve forgotten how to pay attention on your own?”

“You’re one to talk,” Carth sneered. “You Mandalorians, tucked away inside your precious armor, not even breathing the air of the worlds you ravage. What would any of you do without your sensors? Your ridiculous helmets?”

Canderous didn’t take offense at the “ridiculous” comment; no one expected _aruetiise_ to have taste. “I expect we’d get by,” he said mildly instead, “much like we did on Orsol when the energy storms took down all electronics more sensitive than a firing pin. Or like so many captured _vode_ did when they broke out of Republic prison-camps and ships without so much as a vibroblade to their names.”

“Oh come on,” Carth said, but Canderous wasn’t finished.

“Our armor is not a crutch, it is part of us. Part of our…our souls, our spirit as Mando’ade. We don’t _need_ our armor to fight; we need our armor to be our best selves.”

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” Carth said, his voice flat.

“Really?” Canderous raised an eyebrow, smearing a second layer of cream across the back of the other man’s neck; a burn like that would require extra treatment, he suspected. “You must not get out much.”

Carth laughed. It was a rough, startled bark of amusement, quickly bitten-off. The sound had surprised both of them, Carth himself maybe even more than it had Canderous. _Have I heard him laugh before?_ the Mandalorian thought absently, but he didn’t dwell on the question; it didn’t really matter. Certainly he had never laughed because of something Canderous had said, anyway. He seemed to regret it now, his shoulders locking-up even more tightly than before.

“I was sent back,” Carth admitted after a minute, his voice grudging. “Told I was starting to look too much like a Sith’s lightsaber for my own good, and that I should get out of the suns before I actually ignited. I don’t see why. It’s not as bad as—OUCH!”

“Yeah,” Canderous said, not unsympathetically—for him—nodding although Carth couldn’t see it, “there’s some blistering. You got it really bad back here.”

“…I was leaning forward, sighting for targets for a while,” Carth said. He didn’t seem eager to offer any other information, but eventually added, “Actually, they had me up on a roof to provide potential covering fire while they met with…” His voice trailed-off and he looked around. “Hey, where did Mission go?” he asked in a voice that was far too casual to be natural.

Canderous snorted. “Took off, I think. She’s been loitering around that cantina down by the swoop jockey hangout trying to scare-up news of that deadbeat brother of hers.” It might not have been a safe place for a cute twi’lek kid to spend time, but given that the regulars had seen her in the company of a Wookiee, a Mandalorian, and a Cathar—not to mention a tall, mysterious Jedi who radiated a sense of contained menace and was a fair swoop pilot to boot—they all reckoned that nobody was going to risk getting too fresh that Mission wouldn’t be able to handle them. Besides, it’s not like they could have stopped her short of cuffing her to her bunk, not once she’d heard that Griff might be on planet.

They had met a woman named Lena on Kashyyk. She had been there working for some holonet sleaze-news company and she had taken-off in a hurry once the shooting started, but before she’d left they had learned that she was someone Mission had known back on Taris—not before the bombing, but _long_ before, back when she’d had a brother to look after her instead of just the Wookiee. Lena had told them the last place she had seen Griff was on Tatooine, and given that that was one of the planets on their list of places to investigate—well, no one had argued with the idea to head there next. As far as they could figure out, there was nothing to indicate that the order they searched these places would matter.

After hearing about this Griff from both Mission and Lena, Canderous had decided that Mission sounded like she was better off without him—but that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve to choose her own closure. And if Griff did anything nasty, Canderous was ready to explain to the _osi'yaim_ the myriad of ways that abandoning your family was a bad idea. Possibly with his fists.

He’d also offered to hold the slime-sucker down while Zaalbar did the explaining. The big Wookiee hadn’t said anything, but he’d given Canderous a very slow nod. That was good enough for him.

Carth grunted. From the sound of it, he wasn’t too keen on the idea of Griff either. Canderous’s lips parted in a predator’s grin. That barve had no idea what was coming to him if he ever turned up out of the sands to plague his little sister again.

“So?” Canderous asked after a minute went by without the pilot saying anything.

“Ah,” said Carth. “Well…we talked to some Jawas…”

“Fascinating conversation I’m sure,” Canderous said dryly.

Carth chuckled weakly. “Well, okay, I mostly just listened. Their Baragwinian was a little too…idiosyncratic for my tastes. But from what was passed-on after they were done, it sounds like these Tuskans we’ve been hearing about have a habit of taking captives.”

“Ah.” Canderous nodded his understanding. “And there’s a thought that Griff…?”

“Might be one of them, yeah. We talked to this Czerka worker who’d employed Griff—or at least, had employed a Rutian Twi’lek of that name who sounded like a total loser—”

“Thus increasing the odds that this wasn’t just some other blue twi’lek with a common nickname,” Canderous interrupted wryly.

“Exactly,” said Carth. “Well, he agreed to talk with us privately outside the office, but I was worried he was setting us up, so I went up on the roof ahead of time to be there in case of trouble.”

“And you laid there, reader to play sniper, while the back of your neck and your ears were cooking like slugs on lava,” Canderous finished for him. “Let me guess: the meet went off without a hitch.”

“Well, yes,” Carth admitted. “He was just nervous to talk about a bad employee in front of his own boss, afraid it would make him look bad for employing Griff in the first place.”

“But you thought some dim-witted Czerka flunky was plotting an ambush.” Canderous snorted. “Onasi, you may make for the first time in history that someone gets killed from being _too_ distrustful. All right,” he added, before the stiff-rumped soldier could make the inevitable protest, “that’s taken care of. Turn around and let’s do the other side.”

It was only when Carth turned back around to face him—protesting exactly as Canderous had known he would—that the Mandalorian stopped to consider the arousal-potential of their positions.

When he had been rubbing the kolto cream across the back of Carth’s neck he had been doing nothing more than treating the injuries of a fellow warrior, but as Carth turned he couldn’t help but notice the way his shoulder blades moved beneath the muscles of his back, and the slight sway of his lean torso as he shifted positions. _Too bad he didn’t get burned all over_ , Canderous thought to himself with a smirk. He wouldn’t have minded massaging some of that kolto cream into those parade-ground-straight shoulders. He’d never noticed how sinuous Carth’s torso was; underneath his clothes, his ramrod posture obscured any hint of curves, but with his shirt off it was plain to see that that stiff posture was a deliberate choice, not a natural affectation. There was a little thickening around his midsection—the build of a man who spent more time sitting in pilot chairs than sprinting on the ground—but not enough to completely blur the definition of his abs. That was interesting; most of the people Canderous had shared a bed with fell into two categories: those with muscles that were so sharp you could cut yourself on them, and those with muscles so thick you could bruise yourself on them. Carth didn’t fit either pattern, but he wasn’t soft or flabby either. Soft _er_ than Canderous was used to, perhaps, but not _soft_.

Realizing that he was staring, he pulled his eyes back up and met Carth’s inquisitive, demanding gaze. His eyes had burned too he noticed, the whites around those brown irises a bloodshot pink now. “I’m pretty sure this stuff shouldn’t go in your eyes,” Canderous said, without preamble.

“What?” asked Carth, taken aback.

“Your eyes are burned too,” he said. “I just noticed. Probably a bad idea to stick this goop in them though.”

“So are yours,” Carth retorted, and now it was Canderous’s turn to be taken aback; he hadn’t realized, although now that he thought about it…

“They do feel a bit scorched. Huh.”

“What?” Carth demanded.

Canderous shrugged; the gesture was a lot less painful than it had been an hour ago. “Nothing. Just remembering the last time my eyes felt like this.”

“Let me guess: you’d just conquered some pitiful desert world and you all took your helmets off to celebrate?”

Canderous grinned. “Ah-ah,” he said, admonishing, “you don’t get any war stories out of me. Not until you share at least one of yours first.”

“Why do I have to go first?” Carth demanded.

“Because I asked you first,” Canderous retorted, “and you still haven’t answered my original question.”

Carth glowered at him. “I said I don’t want to talk about the war.”

“But you’ll listen while I talk about it? Interesting. Kind of voyeuristic.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“No?” Canderous shrugged again. “Well, keep quiet a minute unless you want to eat this stuff.” Without waiting for Carth’s answer he slathered a fresh dollop of kolto-cream across the other man’s red face. Carth winced, then pressed his lips together firmly when a drop curled down the side of his mouth. It caught and beaded in his scruffy little goatee, making Canderous smirk.

When he paused to squeeze more from the tube Carth said, “I think I can handle the rest myself, thanks.” He reached for the kolto but Canderous ignored his outstretched hand and reached past him to smear the other side of Carth’s face with the healing cream. Carth flinched—maybe because even though Canderous was being gentle, his hands were callused enough to feel rough on such sensitive skin; maybe because he just didn’t like having his personal space invaded by a Mandalorian brute.

“You can, huh?” Canderous said. “Well as the kid said to me when I tried to tell her the same thing, maybe but I can do it better because I can see what I’m doing without monopolizing the ‘fresher’s reflector plate. Or do you want to be the one to tell Zaalbar he needs to wait to do his business because you’re trying to figure out whether or not you got kolto in all the cracks of your ear?”

Carth lapsed into sullen silence. Canderous could feel that little muscle at the corner of his jaw twitching with annoyance under his fingers and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to restrain a smirk. He prodded the pilot into turning his head this way and that so he could make sure that he had, in fact, gotten some of the cream into every nook and cranny of ears and neck and nose. He didn’t bother to mention to Carth that when he scowled he left streaks of compressed cream across his brows.

“All right, hands next.”

“Oh come on!” Carth exploded. “I can do my own hands, for Force’s sake! Look, it was only the backs of them that burned, even. I think I can handle that much for myself!”

Canderous raised an eyebrow. “And what good will it do you to coat the back of your hands with this goop if your next move is to go the ‘fresher and wash it off so you don’t leave sticky puddles behind whenever you touch something?” he asked, his voice smug. “I suppose you could just sit perfectly still and do nothing until they dry, but—”

“And what good will it do _you_ if you have to go wash _your_ hands off when you’re done with mine?” Carth snapped.

Canderous held out his hands palm-down. “Barely scorched,” he said. It was true; they were a bit pink but nothing like the bright red that glowed on his shoulders and scalp. The angles of the suns had not struck his hands with as much ferocity, and he also had more of a tan from the elbows down than he did most anywhere else; sometimes one had to divest of gloves and gauntlets, even when in beskar. “And most of the cream on them has already soaked-in. I wasn’t sitting on a roof with my blasters out, baking my fingers while I waited for a double-cross.” He grinned and added, “Besides, I’m an uncivilized savage, remember? I’ll just wipe ‘em off on the side of my trousers and call it good enough.”

Carth glowered but reluctantly held out his hands and allowed Canderous to apply the kolto cream. He had a feeling that it hadn’t been his argument that had convinced the pilot to give-in so much as the fact that the places where the cream had already started to do its work were feeling so much _better_ , which had to make the remaining burned areas hurt all the worse in comparison. Arguing with Canderous would just delay him in getting relief for the rest of the sunburn.

“How’s your head?” Canderous asked as he finished with Carth’s hands. He needed to say something, because he’d been too busy noticing how lovely Carth’s long, blaster-callused fingers were to keep bantering with him while he worked.

“My head?” Carth repeated, looking startled. “What—what does that have to do with anything? I’ve got a headache, but that’s only to be expected under the—”

“No, no,” Canderous waved that comment away. “I mean, is your scalp burned?”

“Why would my scalp be burned?” Carth asked, voice flat. “I’ve actually _got_ hair, not like that pitiful carpet of fuzz you have.”

“Oh you think the suns can’t get to you through that floppy little mop?” Canderous asked. He reached forward and flicked Carth on the top of his head.

“OUCH!” Carth’s hand shot to cover the wounded area and he winced when his palm came in contact with the sensitive skin underneath. “All right,” he admitted grudgingly, “so it’s a little tender. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine sooner once you’ve got some of this on it,” Canderous said, squeezing out another dollop of the kolto cream.

Carth backed away, his glistening hands held up in protest. “Oh no,” he said, “you are not putting that goop in my hair. Don’t even think about it.”

“What are you afraid of?” Canderous said. “It won’t hurt.”

“I’m not—“ His eyes flicked toward the hatch, although Canderous hadn’t heard any footsteps coming their way from the outside. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t need it. Not in my hair.”

It took a second, but when Canderous understood what Carth was worried about, he burst out laughing in a full-throated guffaw. “You just don’t want to look like a mess in front of your Jedi sweetheart!”

“My WHAT?” Carth’s voice was strangled. His already red cheeks flushed even darker. “I don’t have a—that’s not even—you’re _insane_.”

“Sure,” Canderous sneered, chuckling, “whatever you say. You don’t have a crush. All right.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carth said. His glare was murderous.

“Suit yourself,” Canderous said. He tossed the tube of kolto cream to Carth who fumbled then caught it. “You hang on to that for when you change your mind. I reckon about…two, three time parts from now when the itching gets bad enough you’ll be ready to pull your hair out by the roots to relieve it.” He treated Carth to an obnoxiously smug smirk, winked, and walked away whistling.

The next time he saw the pilot, Carth was sitting glumly in one of the chairs in the main hold while Mission worked a thick handful of the kolto cream through his hair and into his scalp. Carth was resolutely not looking at any of the Jedi, all three of whom were practicing their meditation on the other side of the room. Juhani’s face was set and Bastila had a tiny frown furrowed between her brows; both women had their eyes closed. At first glance it looked like all three Jedi had their eyes closed but as Canderous watched, their leader sneaked a peek sideways, lips twitching in something that looked suspiciously like a smirk. Carth was resolutely facing the other direction so he didn’t notice, but he did see Canderous’s face break into a broad grin as the Mandalorian paused in the doorway.

He made a rude gesture. Canderous waved at him.

“Ooh,” Mission said brightly, “I bet I can make all your hair stick-up straight with this stuff! You’ll look like a Theelin!” She laughed. “This hair stuff is fun!”

Carth’s shoulders slumped. “Great,” he muttered, as the young twi’lek got to work.

Canderous laughed.


	3. Honor and Allies

The rest of their stay on Tatooine was less amusing. Killing the Tuskans was entertaining enough in its way; they were primitive, simple, but fierce warriors despite their rudimentary strategies, and an honorable people. Most of the others didn’t seem to see them that way, but Canderous had grown used to his new companions having different notions of morality from his. It didn’t stop him from killing as many of the tribesmen as was necessary to accomplish their goals, though; in fact he would have liked to fight more of the raiders, but they were here for more important things. The idea that there was something _more important_ than honorable battle would have sat ill with Canderous under ordinary circumstances but he understood that the real battle was the one that would be fought with Malak; skirmishing with primitives was just a diversion along the way.

“Not going to argue that we ought to hunt down and slaughter them all?” Carth asked him, speaking quietly as the others led the way across the desert away from the tribe’s camp.

“What for?” Canderous asked. He enjoyed the surprise on Carth’s face as he explained: “They were decent opponents, but hardly a true test of our skills. And we have bigger cannoks to cook.”

“That’s a…sensible attitude,” Carth said, voice guarded.

“If we were a simple-minded people fixated on nothing but sating our blood-lust, Carth, we wouldn’t have been much of a threat to your precious Republic,” Canderous said, his voice half-teasing and half-chiding.

“Hmph,” Carth said.

Finding Mission’s brother still alive in the Tuskan camp had been a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it was nice to not have to tell the kid that the brother she so mistakenly adored was dead—but on the other, it meant that Griff was still alive to inevitably disappoint her some more. Fortunately Mission had the _mandokarla_ necessary to kick him to the curb, and Canderous was glad of that—and proud of her for being strong enough to do what she had to—but she’d been quiet afterward, morose even, and he didn’t like the sight of the irrepressibly (sometimes annoyingly) cheerful twi’lek moping over such a waste of breath as Griff Vao. Canderous had thought quite seriously about following the _osi'yaim_ after his last talk with the kid and slotting him quietly where nobody would see, but he’d decided against it at the last minute.

He still wasn’t sure exactly why.

Maybe his distraction over that decision was why he hadn’t noticed a familiar face watching him from the shadows of the cantina. Or maybe it was just because he had been so sure that Jagi was dead that Canderous had never expected to see him again. Regardless, he was caught off-guard when his old comrade approached and he didn’t have time to go for his weapon.

Maybe that was for the best because all Jagi wanted to do was talk—at first.

“Ah, so we meet again, Canderous. It has been quite a long time.”

Canderous goggled at the other Mando, his face going slack with horror and shock. “Jagi?” he gasped.

Around him, he dimly noticed the others stir, turning to watch the confrontation; he was glad that all of them weren’t there, especially the kid. Whatever was going to happen next wasn’t something she needed to witness, not in her current mood. It would have been even better if he’d been alone—or at least free of all those who had ever fought for the Republic.

“Who is this guy, Canderous?”

There was no accusation in the Jedi’s voice, not yet, but Canderous felt an unfamiliar wash of guilt all the same. “He…he was a warrior under my command up to the Battle of Althir,” he explained reluctantly. “But I thought…”

“You thought I was dead, didn’t you!” The anger in Jagi’s voice made Canderous’s hands twitch, longing to grab for a vibroblade—or at least to swing a punch. He restrained himself, though; let Jagi have his words. “You thought all of us that you had sent on that attack had perished!” Now others in the cantina were turning to look, although Anchorhead being the kind of place it was most of them tried not to be obvious about it. “You sent us to die on a foolish attack while you directed your forces elsewhere! You broke from the battle plan and let us die for it, so that you could have the ‘honor’ of being the first to the enemy commander!”

Canderous said nothing, but someone else did: “Tough decisions are made in war.” It was impossible to gauge the Jedi’s reaction from that neutral tone of voice. Canderous realized that he had spoken of the Battle of Althir to his new commander only a few days ago—proudly recounting his glorious victory there, no less! He swallowed hard. The timing couldn’t have been worse if he’d placed a bet on it.

“That does not excuse what he did to us!” Jagi retorted, his brown face reddening with anger—with betrayal. “I alone realized what was happening and managed to escape the trap before it closed. The trap he set for his own men!”

Canderous could feel the eyes of his allies on his shoulders like a heavy weight: Jolee’s gaze neutral, assessing, interested; Carth’s like a hot brand, eyes narrow and muscles tense as though betrayal was something he could smell or taste. Juhani bristled, as she always did when anything Mandalorian was mentioned. The other Jedi was harder to read and Canderous was too focused on his memories of the past and the angry man in front of him to try, even when that calm and curious voice broke across his shoulders with a simple question that lashed like a whip:

“Is this true, Canderous?”

He swallowed again, his mouth feeling as dry as Tatooine sand. “I…I did what was prudent at the time,” he said, his gruff voice little more than a whisper. “If I had not done it, the battle would have—”

“The battle would have been won anyway!” Jagi interrupted, voice raw and angry. He still hadn’t gone for a weapon which was surprising, but Canderous knew that couldn’t last. He wondered if he should go for one first but something stayed his hand—maybe just the thought of what his companions would think of him shooting down an old ally in front of them in seemingly cold blood. “I am tired of your excuses, Canderous.” Jagi straightened, his chin jutting forward and his eyes closing to slits. “I have spent years tracking you down since the Clans were banished, and I will not rest until I have had my vengeance!”

Canderous was about to speak but he had barely opened his mouth when suddenly a tall figure in long robes stepped out in front of him—backing Canderous up, even though he hardly felt like he deserved it right now, but that was what any good commander did for the soldiers who followed them. The Jedi’s voice rang out clear in the dim cantina: “If you face Canderous, you face me as well!”

Canderous stared in shock; he wasn’t the only one. Carth goggled and Juhani frowned, visibly displeased by the idea; Jolee just sipped his drink, the picture of a calm spectator who had no stake in the ring.

“I am not afraid of you,” Jagi sneered, which was right and proper because Mandalorians did not fear a fight—but was also foolish, because he did not know who he was speaking to; had never seen that bright lightsaber flash in the darkness or heard that low chuckle as battle was joined. “If you choose, you can die by his side as well!” he said.

Before anyone else could make similarly misguided declarations of loyalty—or more likely, attempt to talk their leader out of this reckless idea—Jagi turned back to Canderous and straightened his shoulders. When he spoke again his voice was firmer, almost formal: “I challenge you, Canderous. I challenge you to fight the fight you fled that day above Althir. In the Dune Seas I will be waiting for you. I have spread the news of the challenge since I learned you had landed on this world. All the surviving Mandalorian Clans know of what I do here, and that we shall meet under the suns of Tatooine to settle this debt of vengeance once and for all. If you fail to meet me, you shall be stripped of all honor and forever cast out of our society. It will be you and me alone in the Dune Seas: a final battle that can only end in death. I shall be waiting for you there, Canderous, tomorrow after first-noon.”

“You won’t be waiting long,” Canderous growled. Jagi jerked his head in a curt nod and turned away. He did not hesitate to show his back to Canderous; either he believed that his former commander still had some honor, despite his feelings about his actions above Althir, or he simply wished to show that he was not afraid. It didn’t matter which; Canderous would never had shot him in the back right now and furthermore would have punched any of his comrades who had drawn a weapon on the man because he _did_ still have his honor. And he would meet Jagi and prove it.

Slowly the buzz of talk and drinking resumed; only then did Canderous notice that the cantina had fallen silent to observe the spectacle. He turned to glare at the room. No one dared to meet his eyes. When he turned back to his table, though, he found four pairs of eyes fixed on him. He glared at all of them, too, but only Juhani looked away, her dismissive sniff making it clear that she wasn’t frightened of his scowl but simply considered him too far beneath her to care about. He figured the only reason she was with them, and not back meditating with Bastila or whatever Jedi normally did while their friends staked-out a dive cantina in search of a lead, was because she didn’t trust Carth and Jolee to keep Canderous from leading the Jedi she was so devoted to into trouble without her there to supervise.

“What happened out there?” The question was inevitable; Canderous was sure that all four of them wanted to know the answer to that question, even Juhani for all that her posture said otherwise, but neither Jolee nor Carth would have brought themselves to ask it. “Why is Jagi so mad at you?” His commander’s voice was quiet but determined, demanding an answer that Canderous could not bring himself to give. Not here, not to them.

Canderous shook his head and finished his drink in one long swallow. “This is between Jagi and me,” he growled. “You don’t have to get involved.” Then he relented, because he couldn’t brush-off a leader he was so proud to follow without offering _something_ of an answer, albeit a grudging one: “If you’re lucky, he might spill something before I spread him in a paste over the dunes. You’re welcome to come and watch if you want—but stay out of the fight. Jagi’s _mine_.”

He slammed his empty cup on the table and stalked out of the cantina without looking back.

It wasn’t a surprise that one of them followed him out; that it was _Carth_ who came after him, was. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Did you really leave your own soldiers to die?”

“It was a war,” Canderous growled. “Of course I did. Don’t act like you never made the same choice.”

“I never left _anyone_ to die for _glory_ ,” Carth said. He sounded sullen.

“You didn’t even _fight_ for glory,” Canderous retorted. “What would you know about it?”

“I know it’s not something worth dying for,” Carth said quietly. “It’s not something worth killing for, either—and letting your own men die for it? For your personal glory? That’s…that’s _evil_.”

“If you know so much about it, why are you here?” Canderous had not stopped walking the whole time they spoke, and despite Carth being slightly taller than the stocky Mandalorian he had to trot to keep up.

When he spoke, he sounded breathless. Canderous wasn’t sure if it was because of the brisk pace or because of the emotional strain that any mention of betrayal put on the sulky, wounded pilot. “Because…it doesn’t fit what I know of you.”

“What do you know?” Canderous sneered.

“I know you’ve got honor. It’s a bizarre, twisted, bloody sort of honor,” Carth added, amending his own statement with a frown, “but it’s still honor…of a sort. And you don’t seem like the kind of man who would do that to his own troops.”

“Then I guess you have to believe me instead of Jagi,” Canderous said. He was too fixated on his own dark thoughts to be surprised by the notion that the oh-so-righteous Republic boot-licker had at some point changed his mind about Canderous being in possession of some form of personal honor…but later he would remember the revelation and be properly shocked by it.

“Give me a reason to,” Carth shot back.

Canderous stopped. He turned around so abruptly that Carth almost tripped over his own feet in an attempt to avoid running into him. “Well?” he demanded, when Canderous said nothing.

“Find your own reason,” he finally said, and walked away. This time Carth did not follow him.

 

Canderous wasn’t surprised to have his commander accompany him when he left for the desert; he wasn’t surprised that HK-47 had tagged-along to watch the show either. He _was_ surprised that Carth Onasi had come too. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Looking for a reason,” Carth said shortly.

Canderous growled under his breath but said nothing else. He led the way out of Anchorhead in silence, the others trailing mutely behind him.

He was reasonably sure that his commander would let him fight this alone, and that meant that the droid would stay out of it as well; his loyalty was all programming and thus not something that Canderous could respect, but at least it meant he didn’t have to worry what HK-47 would do. He would do nothing unless his master allowed it. Carth, on the other hand…Carth was a wild card. Especially when the subject of betrayal was involved. For all Canderous knew, Carth was coming along to shoot him _for_ Jagi in some kind of vicarious substitute for his own long-denied revenge.

(Carth thought he had more secrets than he did; he was too transparent to be able to hide things well, no matter how taciturn he tried to be when questioned directly. Canderous knew all about Saul Karath and Telos IV—or knew enough, at least, to know what lay at the root of most of Carth’s visible trauma.)

He decided that it didn’t matter. He was going out there to face _Jagi_. Whatever Carth did or did not do was irrelevant; it wasn’t _Carth_ who had questioned his honor, after all. Carth was just an _aruetii_ and thus he did not, would never, understand _real_ honor— _ijaat_. If he shot Canderous over what Jagi said, it would have no effect on what was true. And the truth was, Canderous _had_ done the right thing—he was almost sure of it.

There were no footsteps leading away from Anchorhead when they left the boundaries of the city and crossed into the unforgiving wastes of the Dune Sea. Canderous didn’t bother looking for any. He knew where he would find Jagi. Looking fixedly in the direction of the higher of the twin suns—the one whose apex marked first noon—Canderous strode straight ahead. His shadows stretched out behind him, one short and dark and the other long and pale. His three companions followed, trailing shadows of their own.

It wasn’t hard to see Jagi; on these wide, empty dunes, the waiting figures stood-out like mountains. Canderous did not speak, nor did he pause. He came within shouting distance of Jagi and kept walking until he was close enough to talk at a reasonable volume—at least, a volume considered reasonable by people who had spent their lives bellowing across battlefields. Then he stopped and waited, his companions filing in silently behind him—close, but not too close.

It was Jagi who spoke first: “Ah, so you managed to come after all. I see you brought friends.” His smile was grim.

So was Canderous’s. “You brought some of your own as well,” he said, his voice bland. He nodded at Jagi’s companions; from the look of them, they were probably other enforcers of the Hutt who currently paid Jagi’s wages. From the scars on their armor and their skin they were real fighters rather than the large props of intimidating-looking muscle that crime lords often hired to stand around and look tough. He wasn’t sure if this counted as an ambush or if Jagi was just being practical.

When the other man laughed he had his answer. “Ha! Indeed I did,” Jagi said. “I foresaw that you might need help so I arranged a distraction.” He nodded in the direction of Canderous’s companions, paying especial regard to the Jedi. There was a sneer on his face. Canderous didn’t like it; if he hadn’t already been out here to answer a question of honor he would have demanded that Jagi show more respect for his commander. He might have also demanded that Jagi apologize to him for the implication that Canderous had brought his companions along to fight for him rather than simply to observe but the Jedi spoke first, voice mild but with a hint of durasteel beneath the simple words:

“Canderous works for me.”

His chin lifted, his spine straightened; Canderous had found a commander in whom he could take pride, one he could follow into real battles again. Nothing Jagi said could take that away from him.

“I do not need to hear your excuses, Jedi,” Jagi spat, as though the word left a bad taste in his mouth. “I know why he brought you.”

 “Enough of this talk, Jagi!” Canderous interrupted. He suddenly felt unaccountably anxious—not because he was worried about this fight, but because he was worried about what the spectators might think of him afterward, and because of what else Jagi might say. Worrying what other people thought about him was an unfamiliar feeling for Canderous and not one that he liked. “Let’s do what we came here to do!” he demanded, impatient.

His commander was less eager for the fight to start. “I think you both need to calm down.”

“We both know the stakes here, and we both know what we must do,” Jagi said formally, ignoring the Jedi’s useless admonition—as well he should. After all, Jedi—even a Jedi such as _this_ one—could not understand Mandalorian honor. There was no point trying to explain, or to listen to their arguments against the demands of _ijaat_. “It is only in death that this can end.”

“This is a matter of honor,” Canderous agreed, likewise formal. “I cannot stand by this insult; I must do this!” He wasn’t sure if he was saying it to declare his intentions for the duel or because he wanted to make sure his companions understood how much hung in the balance of this fight.

“Why do you need to fight him, Canderous?” It was a fair question of his leader to ask; after all, Canderous had pledged his service to the quest for the Star Forge, and now he was risking being unable to follow it through to completion in order to settle personal business. An explanation was deserved, even if it would never have been necessary had Canderous’s companions been Mando’ade themselves.

“He has slandered me and questioned _my honor_.” The words felt weighty, ponderous, as they fell from Canderous’s tongue. He looked away from Jagi long enough to make sure his companions—the organic ones, at least—were listening, were understanding. He didn’t care about the droid. “Among the Mandalorians, many have died for much lesser insults,” he said.

Jagi stiffened, angered, his hands going tight around the hilt of the blaster he held loosely by his side. “I speak truth!” he snapped. “And honor is the question here! The deaths of my comrades, your warriors, are a debt in blood that can only be paid by you.” He glowered at Canderous, accusation and disgust blazing in his dark eyes. “When you saw prospects for _glory_ you abandoned the plan and left us to die surrounded by enemies!” he reminded them all, voice bitter.

“If I had not attacked when I did, that battle would not have been won so easily!” Canderous’s guts twisted as he spoke, the pain worse than any vibroblade wound. It wasn’t just Jagi accusing him of dishonor: part of his own conscience had always wondered if he had made the right call over Althir, although he had been able to avoid thinking about it until Jagi had walked back into his life. Now he had to face his own doubts as well as those of this man he had once led into war.

“It would still have been won,” Jagi insisted, his voice low. “You sent your own men to die there, Canderous. I cannot forgive you for what you did to us. You _will_ pay,” he promised. There was no sound of uncertainty in his tone.

“That’s not the way it happened,” Canderous protested, an uncommon desperation clawing at him as though a kinrath was trying to tear its way out through his skin from the inside.

He heard Carth’s harsh, indrawn breath, but it wasn’t Carth who spoke; it was his commander, the fiery heart of Canderous’s newfound purpose. The question was spoken softly—almost gently. The words still cut, sharp as Echani steel: “You sent your own men to die, Canderous?”

“The Althiri were fighting hard,” Canderous said. He spoke quickly, as though the words would be easier to say—or to hear—if he got them all out in a rush. “I saw a break in their defenses that left their center exposed. I _had_ to take the chance.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying harder to convince: them or himself. “If I had not done what I did, many more warriors would have died and the battle would have taken much longer. I stand by my decision!” he insisted.

“You coward!” Jagi cried. “You glory-hunter! You were given direct orders and were part of a plan. You had a responsibility to us.” His voice turned grim, certain. There was no doubt in his heart or on his face as he stared at the man who had sent him to die.

Canderous felt none of that certainty right now. “I…I can regret their loss,” he admitted, and that much he knew was true. “But it was necessary.”

His commander’s voice was still gentle, although no longer aimed toward Canderous: “People die in war, Jagi.”

The words seemed to fall on deaf ears. “He left us to die when his responsibility was to _us!_ Instead he went hunting more glory for himself!”

 “He may have saved other lives by doing what he did.”

Canderous swallowed, unsure if he deserved to have the benefit of the doubt that his leader was giving him.

Jagi’s wail sounded like agreement: “He cost us ours! But…” Then he hesitated. “But I do see your point…” Jagi shook his head, the rage on his face twisting now to hurt, to confusion. “But…why did you have to leave us there to die while you chased glory somewhere else?” he asked— _pleaded_ , more like.

“I saw a chance and I had to take it,” Canderous said. “It ended the battle quicker than we would have otherwise, and many of our warriors may have died if I hadn’t.” He felt almost calm suddenly, strangely, as he explained himself truly for the first time—even to himself. He wasn’t making excuses this time. “Mandalore taught us that opportunism and flexibility in battle were to be admired. You may contradict me, but do you contradict him as well?” he asked, his tone suddenly pointed.

“No!” Jagi said quickly, because to contradict the Mandalore was not something that they did lightly—especially not in front of outsiders. One could argue with the Mandalore to his face, that was the right of any Mando—but to contradict _him?_ With lesser Mandalores, perhaps; but not Mandalore the Ultimate. He had led them to the greatest glory that any Mandalorian had claimed in many years. His tactical instructions were not something to be lightly discarded. Jagi frowned, his inner struggle painted clearly across his face. “I…I…I see that I have been wrong,” he said at last. “I have not been true to the teachings of Mandalore.” He swallowed, ashamed and uncertain. “You were right,” he said at last, and Canderous was surprised that the admission did not cost Jagi more to voice than he could bear. “I was wrong to question your honor. But I must now cleanse mine with my life.”

Shocked, the others shouted protests—except for HK-47 who watched it all with silent, glowing eyes—and the Jedi’s hand raised, then hesitated, its owner unsure if saving Jagi from himself was the right thing to do or not.

Canderous just nodded; he understood. Some revelations shook a person to their core, and some shook them even further. There were some things that could only be accepted, truly accepted, when one faced the end. Jagi had lived so long for nothing but revenge that now, when he accepted that his goal had been misguided, there was no point in doing anything else but ending it. Canderous could not help but respect that kind of conviction. It was something his life had lacked ever since the war had ended—but that he was beginning to think he might be able to reclaim, now that he had a real leader to follow again.

“And so it shall be,” he said to Jagi with a nod of forgiveness and pride.

Jagi returned the nod and then, because there was nothing left to say, he said nothing; just raised his blaster and pressed the barrel to his temple. Before any of the spectators on either side could act or speak again he closed his eyes, an expression of peace finally passing across his face. He squeezed the trigger.

The blast was loud in the empty desert, loud and hollow. Jagi’s fall was almost silent on the sliding sand.

Canderous bowed his head in respect. He had to raise his gaze almost immediately, however; before he could speak so much as a simple farewell for his former warrior the toughs that Jagi had brought along as insurance against dishonorable behavior were fumbling for their weapons.

“You did this, Jedi!” one of them shouted. “I’ve seen what your kind can do to people’s minds!”

The other already had his weapon raised. “Blast them all before the Jedi can do it to us, too!” he cried.

They opened fire, forcing Canderous and Carth to dive for the ground. The Jedi’s lightsaber flashed into life with a _snap-hiss_ , deflecting the blaster bolts with ease. HK-47 switched on his evasive programming but did little but bob and twist in place, trusting in his armored carapace to endure the occasional glancing laser beam.

Canderous rolled to his feet, his own weapon already in his hands, returning fire before he even bothered to aim. Carth had only raised himself to his knees and was squeezing off shots from both hands, easily shifting aim and focus between his two weapons with a fluidity that never failed to impress Canderous.

One laser creased Canderous’s shoulder and he grunted, too distracted by the fight to really notice the pain but aware that it would hurt later. Since the rapid shots he fired back caught the Weequay who had hit him right across his wrinkled face, dropping the stocky figure with a gurgle, he decided not to mind.

The fight didn’t take long; Jagi’s friends were doubtless good at what they did, but what they did was enforce a crime lord’s will on people who rarely had any real chance of fighting back. They weren’t up to a Mandalorian’s level—and certainly not up to his Jedi leader’s.

“Observation: this engagement has come to a satisfactory end. This unit was worried that you meat-bags were going to talk everyone out of doing anything interesting. Indeed master, I was starting to think I had wasted my time by coming.” The droid’s voice turned surprisingly warm for something made of bolts and gears as he added, “Statement: I am pleased to have been proved wrong.”

“We’ve spoken about this, HK.”

“Retraction: oh master, surely you did not think that I was referring to _you_ when I said meat-bags? Oh no, master! I was referring to the _other_ meat-bags—er, to the other organics who yammered-on about peace and understanding and forgiveness. Or something dull of that nature. Confession: I was not really listening.”

“Probably just as well,” Carth muttered, brushing sand off his knees. “If you’d been listening you would have wanted to talk, and then we’d probably all have gotten shot.”

Canderous probably should have laughed; if he had been feeling like himself he would have.

He felt intense eyes fix on him; felt the question without it needing to be asked.

He answered it, because his commander deserved an answer—even if Canderous wasn’t sure what answer to give. “I…I think this has affected me in ways that I didn’t anticipate,” he admitted, his voice sounding as raw as he felt. “I think I’ll need…time to sort things out.” He swallowed, displeased with himself for sounding so uncertain, so weak, in front of the leader to whom he owed his allegiance…but he also felt strangely weightless, as thought a burden he hadn’t noticed had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Thanks for what you did,” he added, glancing between the comrades—even the droid—who had walked out into the desert with him, “whatever your intentions might have been. I just need…” The word was hard to say but he forced it out again: “time.”

“Of course, Canderous.” The Jedi’s hand was warm on his shoulder; a comforting warmth, very different from the raw burn of the desert. “Take as much time as you need.”

“As long as we don’t have to take it out here,” Carth grumbled. “I’ve gotten enough sunburn to last a lifetime already.”

Canderous still didn’t laugh.


End file.
